


A Resolute Mind

by OccassionalDream



Category: Senjou no Merry Christmas | Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence | Furyo (1983)
Genre: Angst, Bleak, Canon-Typical Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV First Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Sexual Violence, but it's just a fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 09:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccassionalDream/pseuds/OccassionalDream
Summary: Yonoi reflects on the war and everything that led to his ruin.





	A Resolute Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains a brief non-con scenario that is completely fabricated by Yonoi himself.

Java was to be my reckoning. The shame of my failure, burning hot and furious, would finally be absolved. I craved redemption more then I had ever ached for anything in my short, naive life. I wanted nothing more than to be the shining young officer I was predestined to become. Besides, I was no stranger to savagery (which was abundant back in those days). My very blood was made from war; atrocities were as deeply interwoven in my making as the skin that stretched across my bones. I was no more man than beast. None of us were. The elusive promise of glory hung heavily over my every action, and I was a slave to its expectations. I never thought Java would be my ruin. All I could see was my birth right laid before me. What a foolish thing pride is.

There was a devastating beauty to Java which I had never felt as strongly as I had there in the midst of the war. Such lush forests, dense with vibrant foliage and brilliant flora, could be called nothing but breathtaking; and yet, something about its prepossessed savagery overwhelmed the prisoner of war camp, turning the whole landscape cruel. It twisted the blazing days into endless, maddening tribulations and the nights into dark hours of despair that made even the sanest of men in the gruelling camp question their lucidity. I often felt that the blackness of Java swallowed everything whole, leaving little else but shattered fragments of painful dreams looming just at the forefront of broken minds. There was no peace there. And while the vicious reality of Java was overwhelming, I embraced every maddening moment with open arms and a resolute spirit.

Looking back on it all, I can remember with overwhelming clarity the very moment my carefully woven narrative began to unwind. I had been ordered to oversee a trail in Batavia that was proving to be particularly trying. Another British soldier was to be sentenced; another pale faced fool thrown into the very heart of a war he didn't know how to fight. On principle, all white soldiers disgusted me. Their cowardice enraged me just as much as their unabashed emotions. So backwards and disgraceful. However, as Captain of the war camp, I had no choice but to constantly be subjected to this vile breed of men. That day was no different. I was reluctant to deal with another British failure, but my duty was to be fulfilled regardless of my own petty feelings. Besides, it was a welcome reprieve given what Hara had done so brazenly behind my back. The trail, in comparison, was straightforward. Garnering the favour of the military higher-ups was my primary concern, and my appearance at the trial was a strong indication that my presence had been acknowledged in some capacity. In short, I couldn't refuse.

The small office in which we congregated that fateful day did little to dissuade the suffocating heat—the small black fan that was whirring on the wooden desk all but useless—but no one seemed to pay any mind to the sweltering condition. In fact, there was a decidedly cold constitution shared amongst the personnel, leaving them all but stricken dumb in the short time before the trial was to occur. Few words were exchanged, more a formality then a true discussion, but the consensus was that no one seemed to know what to make of the soldier that was being kept. He was defiant, like all British soldiers were, but something about him was too intelligent to be immediately discredited. Regardless, they felt quite strongly of his guilt, a sentiment that was applied to all British during that time. The death penalty seemed inevitable. The smoke from a lit cigarette filled the silence, thick and cloying, as we waited. I had no idea then that this trial would change the course of my life so completely.

My eyes had remained firmly ahead as I marched dutifully to the stand. I knew by then that my appearance was less necessary then I had previously surmised, and therefore I did not feel the need to fully engage in the coming events. Despite my intrigue at the man who had managed to cause such uproar amongst the military higher ups, the verdict already hung heavily over the trial, so my input and interest were unnecessary. It was a waste of my skills, but I dared not voice any objections. My appearance alone served a purpose, and that would be enough to garner me the favour I sought.

I took my seat promptly, and set my Captain's hat atop the wooden surface of the podium. Without bothering to engage my curiosity, I began to remove my white formal gloves. Lieutenant Colonel Fujimura's voice rang through the tense silence, signalling the beginning of the trial, but my focus remained on the removal of my gloves, one finger at a time. I absentmindedly listened as he identified the accused as one Major Jack Celliers of the British army, before he asked, in broken english, if the name given was correct. The defiant "Why shouldn't it be", delivered in a pleasingly higher male register, touched something in me that compelled my gaze to focus on this new anomaly. A horrible, traitorous heat began to churn nauseatingly within me at the sight that befell my eyes. I greedily took in Cellier's appearance, unashamedly grazing across his lithe figure and his strikingly exotic features. Blonde hair, more common amongst the British, nearly glowed golden in contrast to the bronzed skin that stretched across a delicately boned face. Both had evidently been touched by the unrelenting sun, an unfortunate side effect of Java's harsh climate. I had observed, and disliked, a similar colouring in Group Captain Hicksley. However, I could not deny that on this young man the combination was strangely tantalizing. Large blue eyes, framed by thick golden lashes, relentlessly stared down Fujimura, nonverbally enhancing his defiance. His thin lips were held tightly together, sharpening his already prominent cheekbones in their severity. I ached. Looking at him was akin to looking into the sun itself. He was a painful reminder of something forbidden, and yet it took everything in me to look away. I knew that I couldn't let this man go. A sick urgency overtook me and I felt compelled to question the Major myself. It wasn't hard to convince Fujimura to let me speak; I could see how frustrated he was with the accused, and how he wished for someone to take control of the situation. I was more than willing.

The questioning was nearly thrilling, if only for the fact that I could converse with this maddening man. He readily rebutted my insinuations with well prepared and long suffering recounts. I couldn't help but respond in kind, my questions more terse and accusatory. I wanted him cornered, I wanted to taste the desperation that tinged his every word, to prolong his suffering. Simultaneously, and more maddening still, I wanted him to prove himself innocent. My own urgency, my own sickness grew as my conflict continued. Finally I dared him to prove his story, to give physical evidence to his outlandish claims. And he delivered. Eyes hard, gaze steady, he began to unbutton his uniform.

Such a sickening throb ran through me as creamy skin was revealed. The swell of dusky nipples left my mouth dry and my tongue heavy. Traitorous body following my traitorous mind. A horrible buzzing prickled under my skin, raising the skin along my arms. I was acutely aware of the filling of my most private flesh, long forgotten and better yet ignored still, as this horrendous creature twisted his slender body to reveal the large scars marring his delicate back. An atrocious, all consuming hunger overcame me then. Hot on its heals was an insurmountable anger that quickly overcame me. How dare this man upset everything I had so meticulously crafted. I all but barked at Celliers to put on his shirt, my voice disgustingly rough. I would not be subjected to the horribly tantalizing sight any longer. And yet, I knew this man would be mine. If only for the perverse pleasure of holding this man under my thumb. Damning my own sick desires made flesh. Or at least, that was the lie I told myself.

Every glimpse of Celliers thereafter awoke in me a myriad of unwanted emotions. The longing desires to touch, to feel, to taste—while unwanted were easier to master. I passed off my depraved lust as a sick anomaly born of the constant madness my disgustingly weak mind was exposed to. Thus the perversion was not my own, but rather the result of my position. Believing this to be the absolute truth, I set out to concur my thoughts with rigorous discipline. I trained relentlessly, I fasted, I threw myself into my duties, all of which I knew would strengthen my spirit. However, the unwanted, abhorrent things that clouded my mind were less easily resolved. Brittle tenderness could scarcely be beaten into submission. The desire to know him deeply, even less. But oh, how I tried. The white soldiers, and even my own men, were not safe from my foul moods. Violence was a balm I applied frequently to soothe my deviant mind. And for a time, it worked.

The spiral of my downfall was fast, and once entered I was no more capable of stopping it then a man was capable of stopping a tsunami. Disaster was imminent and unavoidable. I could feel my control slipping through my fingers. Even my own men were starting to doubt my ways. Such insubordination was unforgivable, but I was helpless to let go of this vile obsession.

The first time I succumbed to my sickness was just after Celliers had thrown down his sword, refusing to take the painstaking imprudent gift I had given him. I was incensed. This demon, this personal devil sent to ravage my spirit and leave me in complete ruination, had once again pulled apart my skin and rearranged my bones to his liking. My very being had been moulded after his image, forcing my mind to fall to his whims. Worse yet, I had succumb to his trickery without a fight. I had continually granted him luxuries unfit to his role as captive. And every debased kindness, every ill gesture, had been thrown back in my face.

And yet the very idea of one of my men taking that from me, taking him from me, left me furious beyond even the anger born of Celliers himself. I fled to my quarters quickly following the incident, thankful for the facade of privacy they provided. In a fit of truly petulant rage, I set about upending all of my meagre furnishings. The loud noise of my anger made tangible should have been satisfying, but instead it only seemed to fan the flames higher. It was not enough. The destruction was as chaotic as my soul. Impulsively, I pictured Celliers in my mind then, kneeling as he had been as he had thrust the sword into the ground. His face had been covered in moisture, gaunt and haunted, and yet blooming with a crooked smile. I had wanted so desperately to strike him then. To wipe that smile from his face so violently that he would never be capable of the gesture again. Suddenly my anger shifted. My body became taunt with the loathsome desire that coursed through me at the the image in my mind. Distantly I felt my flesh swell, nearly painful in its tumescence, but it was only a facet of the near violent lust that overcame me. The Celliers in my mind continued to kneel, but instead of being interrupted as we had earlier, the night remained undisturbed. His crystalline eyes bore into my own, taunting me. I was on him then, vicious and unforgiving. I consumed those thin lips, tearing the chapped flesh with my teeth, allowing his blood to flow freely between us. The violence soothed me. To know I was hurting him made my own blood sing. I roughly fisted the golden strands atop his head, holding him still as I thrust my tongue into his mouth, greedily drinking from him. His struggle made the act all the sweeter. His emaciated body was no match for my strength, honed from years of discipline made stronger then by my own rage. The hands that tore at my back were more a tease then the violent action they were intended as. I managed to pin him beneath me, all the while ravaging his mouth. I pulled back, blood coating my lips, and made quick work of forcibly removing his clothing. My hands greedily ripped the material, uncaring of the state in which I left his uniform. His energy by then had been spent from his earlier struggle, and now Celliers was deliciously docile beneath me. Bronzed skin was on full display, his lithe body glowing in the moonlight, and finally I felt triumphant. My eyes drank in the familiar dusky nipples and smooth skin until they reached his groin. I was perversely thrilled to find his own flesh as rigid as my own. The turgid length flushed red and dripping onto his concave stomach. The sight was enough to snap what little lucidity I had left. Wrenching his legs apart, I entered his body in a brutal thrust, forcing him to mould to me as he had made me to him. His choked off scream spurred me on, my hips stuttering as I began a relentless pace. My hands clamped down on his slender hips, coercing his body to meet my violent rhythm. Celliers' whimpers sent electric jolts down my spine, and the loud slapping of our skin thrilled me. Our eyes locked once more, and I raptly watched as the moisture in his eyes slipped free. He began to weep from my ministrations. And that was enough; to know I had owned, I had marked, I had broken this man as utterly as he had broken me, spurned me to spend myself within him. My flesh pulsed with every wave of semen I produced, coating Celliers as intimately as I knew how. And when I felt my hand sticky with release, my grotesque fantasy shattered. Alone in my quarters, covered in my seed, I toppled to my knees and vomited acrid bile onto my wooden floor.

That was not the last time I pleasured myself to images of Celliers. But with each session, my resentment grew, until finally I snapped like a string pulled too taunt. And with Celliers' chapped lips, pressed roughly to either of my cheeks, our narratives fell to pieces.

I diligently severed the sun bleached hair from Celliers head. I could not help but feel a strange peace as I knelt behind him, gently working through the straw like strands. Once finished, I inspected his hair in the little light the moon provided, before enclosing it safely in a small piece of folded paper. I moved to stand before the man who had led to my complete and utter destruction. But he was no less beautiful then in his death; no less achingly forbidden. I was struck then by the tragedy of the situation, but the feeling was quickly picked up by the warm wind and swept away. I could not dwell on this man any longer. All I would allow myself was the hair; a golden reminder of everything I had been. I saluted Celliers, hesitating a moment in front of him, before I turned and let my feet carry me off. This was not love, and yet I would never known such feelings again.


End file.
